


The Chains of Memory

by N1ghtshade



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Book/Movie: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, Gen, alternate slave traders scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27273541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/N1ghtshade/pseuds/N1ghtshade
Summary: Caspian sits against the cold stone wall and wonders what kind of a king he is. The sort who gets himself captured by slavers and chained up to be sold, apparently. He glances along the wall, at the rest of the unfortunate people in the cell with him and his friends, then stares down at his boots. These are the people he's supposed to be helping. He's supposed to end horrors like these. But now, he's sitting here in shackles with them, and as much as he hates to admit it, even to himself, he's afraid.An alternate (sort of fusion of the book and movie) version of the slave traders section of Voyage of the Dawn Treader!
Relationships: Caspian & Edmund Pevensie, Caspian & Lucy Pevensie, Caspian & Miraz (Narnia)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	The Chains of Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [just_another_outcast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_another_outcast/gifts).



> just_another_outcast and I happened to rewatch the Narnia series at the same time, and we were discussing the truly unfortunate lack of angsty/whumpy fic in this fandom, so we decided to fix that! We promised we'd each write a fic if the other one did, and hers is already up! AND well worth the read, so go check that out too! (https://archiveofourown.org/works/27217963)

Caspian sits against the cold stone wall and wonders what kind of a king he is. The sort who gets himself captured by slavers and chained up to be sold, apparently. He glances along the wall, at the rest of the unfortunate people in the cell with him and his friends, then stares down at his boots. These are the people he's supposed to be helping. He's supposed to end horrors like these. But now, he's sitting here in shackles with them, and as much as he hates to admit it, even to himself, he's afraid.

People like the slavers benefit from a kingdom in conflict. If they know who he is, his life may not be worth the price he'd get them on the auction block. Revealing himself, trying to use his position to protect the people here, might only make everything worse. He knows what it is to be powerless, to live a life that hangs on the whim of another. And he knows when it's wise to stay hidden.

He can't risk his life and the lives of his friends without some kind of plan. Acting rashly will only make things worse. He learned that lesson a little late, fighting in the war alongside the Kings and Queens of old. It's not one he's likely to forget any time soon. He still dreams of what happened in the castle, the failed attack that left so many friends dead, that tore apart the Narnian families he’d promised he was going to protect. He no longer lives there himself, the blood on the courtyard stones haunts his dreams. And now, he knows this place will too.

His uncle not only ignored but actively supported slavers like these men. Letting them pose a threat to the people made sure they ignored the threat he posed to them as a leader. If they complained, he could show them evidence of the 'lawless monsters' who would rule them if he did not. And when he found his uncle's papers, Caspian had found horrifying documentation of orders from Miraz to the heads of slave trading rings, detailing the locations and defenses of towns whose residents opposed his rule.

He was devastated by the thought of how many people his uncle had condemned to horrible, cruel lives. Thanks to the papers, he'd managed to track down several of the slave rings, and some of their victims. But too many have disappeared or been killed.

He grew up being told the stories of those cruel people, alongside the tales of vicious beasts and dangerous Narnians. Telmarine children shrieked in fear and cowered in corners from stories of slavers stalking the streets, waiting to capture disobedient children who wandered too far from home or stayed out too late.

And there were rumors that in the poorer towns and parts of cities, parents even sold some of their children for the money to feed the rest. Caspian had always pitied those imagined children, wondered what it would be like to choose between starvation or slavery. He'd never needed to find out. Whether his uncle had hated him or not, selling a prince to slavers had been out of the question. Too much could go wrong.

One of the men cracks his whip menacingly, and the sound causes the slaves to cower back. Caspian flinches at the sound, and at the memory it brings back to his mind.

_ His uncle, interrupting a lesson with his tutor by barging into the room in his full armor. _

_ "What is the meaning of this?" Dr. Cornelius demandes, pulling himself to his full height, frowning. It’s an expression that has always slightly intimidated Caspian when he’s caught dawdling over his figures or carelessly blotting his script, but it has no such effect on Miraz. _

_ "There is something the boy should see." _

_ Caspian frowns. He's not a boy anymore. He's learning to use weapons and he's studying war tactics. At his age, some of the legendary figures of Telmarine history were commanding whole armies. But the steel in his uncle's voice makes him feel like he is a frightened small child. _

_ “The traitors who gave our weapons to the Narnian rebels have been found.” Miraz’s voice carries a twisted note of danger. “Rest assured, the one who told them where those rebels could be found will not go unpunished when they too are discovered.” He strokes his beard and glowers at the tutor. “They destroyed the map they were given before they were taken, or we would have known by the handwriting.” _

_ Caspian shivers. They can’t suspect Dr. Cornelius. He doesn’t want anything to happen to his kindly tutor. He’s the only person in this castle who acts like Caspian is important for his own mind and his own heart, not just as a future heir to the throne. He’s already lost his nurse for accidentally mentioning that she told him tales of old Narnia. He won’t do anything to allow Miraz to think Dr. Cornelius is a threat.  _

_ So to get his uncle out of the room, he stands, putting aside his pen and paper. Miraz lays a heavy hand on his shoulder and steers him out of the room. Down the winding, cold hallways, to the courtyard, where in the overcast gloom, he can just make out the glint of armor, soldiers moving to and fro across the cobblestone.  _

_ "This is who we are. Not fables and old wives' tales. We are men of action." Miraz's hand is heavy on Caspian's shoulder. "Magic does not keep a kingdom strong. A firm hand and a hard heart are all that is needed." _

_ The three soldiers, who must be those who were caught handing over the weapons, are standing in a line in the courtyard, hands tied to some of the brackets in the stone walls, stripped to the waist. Behind them, three men in full armor hold long, black whips that seem curled around their arms like dangerous serpents. The hissing sound they make when, almost as one, they’re uncoiled, is unnerving. Caspian doesn’t like snakes. He saw one once, that must have found its way into the castle during the rains of autumn, curled beneath his bed. He hadn’t slept well for days after, even when one of the guards had grabbed the slippery black creature in a metal-gauntleted hand and carried it from the room.  _

_ Miraz raises his hand, then drops it sharply. The hissing sound begins again, this time punctuated by a sharp crack. Caspian looks away as lines of blood appear on the soldiers’ backs.  _

_ "Watch closely. This is what happens to those who defy the crown." Caspian shudders, unable to breathe. He doesn't want to watch these men suffer. _

He takes a deep breath, feeling like he can smell the blood in the air, hear the screams and gasps and groans, and the wet slapping crack of the whip. Over and over and over. His legs had been shaking and almost unable to hold him up by the time Miraz let him go. 

He understands, now, what the unspoken threat in his uncle's actions was. He was threatening Caspian with the same fate if he ever stepped out of line. 

He wonders what will happen now. Surely they’ve been missed by their crew. But the question is whether they’ll know where to look. If the crew will even suspect that they’re in the hands of slavers. Because once they’re sold, they could end up anywhere. 

There’s a bucket of water in one corner, with a dipper in it, but despite his thirst Caspian avoids it. He’s heard stories of how the slavers will pour mixtures of herbs into wine or water to make their captives more docile before sales, and use similar concoctions to make them sleep on the journey once they’ve been purchased. There’s very little chance for escape unless all of them stay alert. But he knows that if he doesn’t drink something, soon, he’ll be weak enough that potion or no potion will be of little consequence. 

He wants to speak to Lucy and Edmund, or even that exasperating Eustace (He can’t just leave the boy here if they do make a break for it), but with the guard standing outside the barred room, he’s afraid of being discovered. He’s considering speaking Old Narnian; the guard’s education was probably not nearly as good as his own, tutoring in nearly-dead languages is not generally a prerequisite for the slave trade. But he can’t be sure the man wouldn’t hear voices and simply decide any conversation is a threat. 

He learned a long time ago how to avoid making people notice him. To become nothing more than another furnishing of a room, silent and still. Sometimes it’s still strange to be acknowledged when he walks into the court chambers or through the halls. No longer walking in Miraz’s shadow, he’s only just started to realize how hard it is to be seen.

If he’s being honest with himself, it’s part of the reason he chose to embark on this voyage. To escape the constant eyes on him. Everyone expects big things. He feels like he’s still a boy, still trying to grasp the meaning of what’s been handed to him. It’s easier here, with a small crew who are more invested in keeping the ship afloat and on course than in whatever he’s doing. He has time to sit with his books and his papers, without being asked for his opinion on the decorations they ought to have for receiving foreign ambassadors or whether he ought to be considering proposals of marriage alliances. 

It’s just a different sort of chain. A gilded cage. He may be king, but he is less free to act on his own will than one of his own subjects. Every decision he makes should be for the good of his country. And before he has to go back to that life, he had wanted to take a few months to try and discover who he truly is. He’s lived all his life under the direction of someone. Here, he was hoping to learn who he is when he’s free. So much for that plan. 

Lucy is playing with something in her fingers, at first he thinks it’s a piece of straw, but on a second look, it seems to be metal, thin and shiny. He has no idea what it is or where she took it from, but he thinks he knows what she’s planning to do with it. As a boy he taught himself to use the tips of pens to open doors in the castle. 

If she can free herself, then there’s hope. Even if just one of them escapes, they could make their way back to the ship and alert the crew that help is needed. And if anyone is to run, he hopes it would be Lucy. She’s quick on her feet and cunning, but more than that, he’s sure that those who remain will be punished for the escape of their comrades, and he wants to spare her that. From the set of Edmund’s jaw, he too wants his sister out of harm’s way. Eustace...well, he probably just wants to go home, as he’s insisted since they hauled him on board the Dawn Treader, but still, if the slavers decide to mete out punishment, Caspian feels sorry for the boy. 

Sunlight, lowering fast beyond the walls, glances into their cell, directly into the eyes of the taller prisoners in the line. Caspian blinks and turns slightly. The shackles bite into his wrists as he shifts, and he wonders, watching the line of sunlight trace upward on the wall as the sun itself sinks toward the sea, whether the crew is even now searching the town for them. He hopes they avoid capture. But he trusts his men to be canny and cunning. He let his guard down for too long and his friends have paid the price. 

Somewhere in the line, someone is sobbing, a harsh, broken sound of helpless desperation. The guard rattles his whip along the bars, and barks at the offender to be silent. The sobs cut off in choked gasps. Caspian wants to comfort the nameless, faceless sufferer, but what comfort could he offer? He’s in the same position. There is no promise of help, not unless the _Dawn Treader_ 's crew discovers what has happened and comes to their aid before the sale. Which, if the slavers are to be believed, begins tomorrow at dawn.

He’s fading into a drowsing slumber, unable to make himself comfortable enough to really sleep, when the door is slammed open and the heavy hobnailed boots of the ringleader of the slavers rattle on the stone. The man walks down the row of slaves, reaching down and lifting faces to look at them. He lingers over one woman with her dress torn and her hair falling around her shoulders, but then shoves her back and continues down the line. Caspian swallows back the bile in his throat at the thought of what these vile men might do to their captives. 

When he reaches Caspian, the man smiles, a cruel, wicked sneer that twists his scarred face. He lifts Caspian’s face, examining it the way he did the woman’s. Caspian spits, and the man pulls back, wiping his cheek and frowning, pulling a hand back as if to deliver a slap, before apparently thinking better of it. 

“Best not damage that pretty face for the buyer,” he says, almost to himself, then turns to the door. “Tacks. Keys for this one,” He calls. Caspian frowns. He thought the sale was in the morning.

“Someone decide to place their bid early?” the guard, who must be ‘Tacks’, asks, walking up with the keys and unlocking Caspian’s shackles from their place on the long chain holding the prisoners together in line. 

“Someone wants this one pretty badly.” The man snickers. “Personally, I’d prefer the pretty girl, but what can I say? That old hermit has some unusual tastes, certainly. But they keep us in business.” He rattles a bag that sounds heavy with coins. 

Caspian struggles to keep looking at the man’s cold eyes and not flinch. He was afraid of what a sale like this could mean for Lucy. But he hasn’t forgotten the way a couple of his uncle’s advisors used to watch him, when he was younger. He’d always been afraid of them and never truly known why. He does now.

He stands slowly, legs burning from the disuse of sitting still in the chains for hours. He stumbles slightly as he’s pushed through the door, barely escaping banging his head on the low lintel of the cell door. Tacks grabs his shackled hands and pulls him roughly along the halls, out to a dim courtyard, where the faint light of a pair of sooty lanterns shows the outline of a rickety horse-card with a pair of stocky black and white horses hitched to it. 

Caspian is dragged up into the back of the cart, his hands shackled to a ring behind the driver’s seat. 

The driver cracks a whip, and the horses start off, hooves clattering on stone. The sound against the chill night air reminds him of that horrible night when they tried to storm Miraz’s castle, and he wonders if somehow, this is justice for what he did that night. If he’s meant to pay for all the lives that were lost because of him. His mind conjures up the defeated eyes of the trapped centaurs, the feral cries of the creatures who had no choice but to turn back and die fighting. 

The cart winds its way out of the city and into the low hills. Caspian can smell the sea air, salty and fresh. He turns to see if he can see the _Dawn Treader_ at anchor, but his movement is rewarded by a sharp cuff to his head from the driver of the wagon, and he sits still again, listening to the softened thud of hoofbeats and looking up at the stars glittering overhead. Stargazing with Dr. Cornelius was always one of his favorite pastimes. He’d loved listening to his tutor’s tales of the constellations, the legends immortalized in the heavens. 

The cart stops, and the driver steps around to unchain his hands. Caspian steps out of the wagon, to find himself facing a low building of white stone, small but neatly kept. Not at all the sort of place he’d imagined himself being taken.

And the tottering old man who steps out isn’t at all the buyer he expects. He suddenly feels much less afraid of the consequences of this arrangement. If the man does have nefarious intentions, Caspian will simply avoid eating or drinking his food, and an escape should be comparatively easy. 

There’s a rattle as a key is turned in the lock of his shackles, and they’re replaced with tightly knotted rope. Caspian is yanked forward, the end of the rope handed off from the driver to the old man, and what sounds like a heavy metal gate is slammed behind them. The horses clop away, and the old man immediately removes the ropes on Caspian’s wrists when the sounds die away. But then, more shockingly, he goes down on his knees on the gravel, reaching for Caspian’s hand and pressing it to his lips.

“My king,” he whispers. 

Caspian is taken aback. Who on this island would possibly know who he was? He had meant for it to be a secret. It’s not as if his likeness is posted in the public square. There’s been no word from or trade to the Lone Islands since Miraz’s death, and well before that he’s sure it had all but ceased.

And then, at the sight of a signet ring glinting on one of the withered hands, he understands. He hasn’t been recognized, not truly. He’s been mistaken for his father.

He reaches down and helps the old man back to his feet, looking intently at his face in the faint pale glow of the waning moonlight. 

“Lord Bern?”


End file.
